


The Death of a Garden

by sappho_42



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, if that’s the interpretation you subscribe to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 22:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20143141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sappho_42/pseuds/sappho_42
Summary: Even flowers will bend under a tide of earth.A short sad fic from Ophelia’s POV as she watches her father’s grave being dug.





	The Death of a Garden

They had dug up her garden. 

Well, it had been due for weeding. But not like this. Undiscerning spades had washed over the former patch of life garden until both weed and flower, and carefully pruned vines, were swallowed whole in the tide of dirt.

Once her father had told her that young ladies were not usually seen with black stuff under their fingernails (especially not the ladies in court! What would your mother say if she were here?), and could she scrub them clean before our meeting with the King and Queen tonight that would be much appreciated thank you? 

The scraping of metal against the packed earth was distant, but the heap of grave-refuse that the gravediggers had erected (in a sort of twisted monument to her father) was very, almost dangerously close.

Of course, Father hadn’t meant to sound so scolding. He was busy as always, and the King’s recent ascension to the throne had only served to make his foremost minister more occupied than ever. But between serving the King, tutoring Laertes in French, and managing his personal servants, Father always seemed weary when at last Ophelia got the chance to talk with him.

The gravedigger returned, and shoved the fresh moist dirt wherever the hell he pleased. Mostly on top of the extant pile.

Now, instead of giving frantic chaos to every role he assumed, Polonius was still.

Now, papers were no longer flying out of dossiers, and remained clasped in his case. (Father used to carry a handsome leather case around with him; it made him stand a little taller even when papers disobeyed him. Now, Father got his own case. Wasn’t that nice.)

Now, he had the time to lie down and listen to Ophelia and comfort her with thoughtful words that weren’t rushed along by foreign ministers, the King’s banquets, or by her insistent brother.

Another shovelful of dirt healed on her garden. Another manicured row of flowers crushed under its dark weight.

Unfortunately, he would never be able to hear her.

(Trampled by the dirt and the spades and the case, the flowers gave way.)


End file.
